


What does it take to break?

by Aellared (SucculentHarpy)



Series: Hold yourself up [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen, Horrorterrors - Freeform, Human/Troll Hybrids, Mild torture, Suicidal Thoughts, bad memories
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-26
Updated: 2018-04-26
Packaged: 2019-04-28 02:43:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14439762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SucculentHarpy/pseuds/Aellared
Summary: In the dark there’s said to be many eyes, many minds and many many teeth. The dark is ever swirling with bubbling motion. The roiling waves of the sea are uncannily mimicked in the nooks and crannies of the caverns, the endless deep space and the depth-less minds of those inclined. Don’t for a second underestimate their influence or overestimate yourself. It will be your ruin.





	What does it take to break?

**Author's Note:**

> Tw for mild gore, sensory issue descriptions, trauma, and suicidal thoughts. This is an installment of Nebula's Memories. This happens to be a bad one.

Choking inky oil drips onto the floor. A puddle has slowly been forming over the hours. It looks like starless space. The light of the candles don’t reach the liquid. A missed place drop angles towards the cup next to you. The drop hits with an erriely loud plink and an echo on the side of the cup. The echo, rattling with a gunshot likeness, ricochets against walls that don't exist. The hiss of the burning candles grows louder, like a pit of vipers, the creak of a building settling seams to deafen, and a directionless draft carries a chill that makes you shudder and clutch to yourself tighter.  
This only digs the manacles in deeper to your already raw skin.  
The black ichor continues to drip.  
Sweat and dirt caked hair sticks to your back and face and shoulders. It itches. Hyperaware, every strand seems to be intent on driving you insane. A haze of smoke surrounds you, somehow never crossing the border of the circle you’re chained in. It curls and writhes as if alive but you know that the only living thing in this room is you. Only you’re soft breath stirs the heavy air.  
It’s surprising you still have a heartbeat. The huge blood stain seems to be yours judging from the closed wounds on yourself. The dried blood matches your own shade. Irrefutable evidence.  
Your skin creaks, wanting to split on the cold, unwelcoming floor. Fear desperately keeps you awake as dehydration, hunger and fatigue crawl towards you. You shake yourself, unsticking your hair and shifting yourself to one of the poles you’re chained to. Chewing on your hair you try and find the walls of the room. An outline of a door blurs at the edge of your strained eyes, tantalizing in its closeness. You’d swear you could hear footsteps and cackling laughter. Maybe even the unmistakable thuds of something hitting flesh. You can taste the pain but it could be anyone's.  
Wrapping yourself tighter in your arms you bite your knee and ignore the burn of your throat as you slowly suffocate on the black fluid that drips out of your tear ducts and salivary glands. 

The stillness stretches. Time passes yet the candles never burn out. 

You hope you’re forgotten. Maybe you’ll get to die this time.  
The drips continue.


End file.
